


Dream of the Stars

by Stonehill



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance, Sleepiness, Subtle Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:36:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21823780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stonehill/pseuds/Stonehill
Summary: “Sleep,” he commands in a tone that probably should’ve been a mockery of sternness, but just comes out a little too sentimental, a little too attached. Poetry. “Dream of the stars, Clara. And let them guide you from places of reality and danger for a little while longer.”
Relationships: Eleventh Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald
Comments: 2
Kudos: 45





	Dream of the Stars

Rest is an odd, almost incomprehensible thing for the Doctor, Clara finds.

She can’t decide if it is fitting to all his energy; as if he never runs out. Always, always moving, never standing still. Or if it confounds her, as if he is a child that’s had too much sugar, or a studenton a caffeine rush, who _must_ run out at some point.

If he does, she never sees it.

He rarely lets her sleep on the TARDIS to begin with, preferring only a single trip, a single adventure, before she sets foot back on Earth. So she assumes that he sleeps then, just like her.

But then there is a longer trip, and a longer one. And she stretches in her chair as he navigates, bustling around, his constant chatter keeping her company and calming her down, until she begins to yawn.

It cuts him off mid-sentence, and the Doctor turns to look at her, scrutinising. “Is it that time already?”

“What time?”

“That time when humans can’t stay awake anymore.”

Clara narrows her eyes at him. It irks her whenever he does this; reminds her he isn’t human. It scratches at something; a wound she hasn’t sustained yet, an emotion she shouldn’t feel.

“As far as I’ve been able to tell, we’re not the only species in space that needs sleep,” she retorts, irritated, and gets to her feet. “Is there a place on this blasted ship where I can sleep?”

“No. No no no no, I’m sorry, Clara,” he babbles, catching her hand before she can charge off into the unknown infinity of the TARDIS looking for a bed. Or just a comfy sofa. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I just forget—“

“You forget?” she repeats, looking up at wide wide eyes. Eternal and dark, like the space they traverse. “You forget that people need sleep?”

“I— well, yes,” he admits, looking aside, abashed. He’s scratching the back of his neck as if it excuses him from the emotion. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have planned a longer trip. This part of time we’re moving through always has everything slow down a little, and—“

The doctor continues talking, explaining things about space she would be able to understand, had she taken university physics—probably—but she listens to the now familiar pace of his voice, and watches the way his face relaxes as he treads familiar ground, stealing away from his reason nearly unnoticed.

She smiles up at him, though he barely notices, and hides a yawn behind her hand.

Her other hand is still tucked securely into his. This, too, has become deceptively familiar; the top of an iceberg, the face of a secret. The halls he allows her to wander in the TARDIS that the sentient machine build as if to assure her that is all there is. It is a steady touch, a comforting reality; and just the fact he hasn’t let go of her yet is enough, is a whisper just loud enough that she can hear it; the attachment behind the action.

He trusts her. Not with everything, but at least with her presence, with his safety.

And so it’s easy to tug him down into his chair as he continues to explain, only stopping him as she slides into his lap, rests her head on his shoulder, so much shorter than him that she is a perfect fit, and yawns greatly.

Clara wonders if this reduces her even more to a child in his eyes than she already were, but she brushes the insecure thought away.

“Wha— Clara!”

“Relax, I’m not trying to seduce you,” she murmurs.

“I’d hope not.”

If she could deck him with her elbow from this position, she would. But she can hear the way his hearts beat out of sync, affected and attached, and she takes comfort in the lies that fall from his lips.

“But it’s probably going to take a while for the TARDIS to produce e bed for me,” she reasons. “And I’m too tired to wait, so just let me sleep here, yes?”

She can feel the arguments spring forth, the past examples that refute her logic. They tense in different parts of the man sitting below her, muscle memory as old as time springing forth to speak the truth.

Only this time he doesn’t lie to keep her at bay, but to keep her close a little longer.

“I suppose,” he murmurs. “Just this once.”

“Thank you.”

“Sleep,” he commands in a tone that probably should’ve been a mockery of sternness, but just comes out a little too sentimental, a little too attached. Poetry. “Dream of the stars, Clara. And let them guide you from places of reality and danger for a little while longer.”

The Doctor’s arm tightens around her under a veil of excuses and lies, and his fingers thread through her hair in a motion as familiar and as soothing as his voice.

She smiles into his neck.

It is not the most restful sleep she’s ever had, for he is not the type to sit still. But she is far away when he easily scoops her closer on his arm and gets up from his seat, so he can grab a book, or conjure a cup of tea, or set new coordinates on the TARDIS, prolonging the trip or shortening it. She doesn’t know.

Clara doesn’t dream.

She simply keeps her eyes shut and dozes in the arms of a living star that refuses to let her go for anything.

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't question the logic.  
> I just wanted an excuse to write that tall doctor carrying a sleeping clara around on his arm while he works and navigates the TARDIS


End file.
